you had it.

their trust.

and your own.

everything was perfect, the drinks were flowing, the spikes were sharp

the test was easy, and you were making them proud.

but, you've lost faith in yourself again, haven't you.

the last medal to your collection is only a few months old but it feels like a lifetime ago.

when you're consistent, you don't know how good you're doing until you stop.

you can't see your own progress.

but now they look at you and they're unsure of when you'll perform again.

"oh, she used to be so good.

she used to have this shine that just pulled you in close,

she used to be so sure of herself."

now she can hardly make eye contact with people in the grocery store.

it's gotten bad.

do they make medals for trying?

he felt electricity flow through his veins,

his arms, his eyes

― Nick Oliveri, The Conjurer

Charlie

He slowly lifts the bottom of a white, sleeveless shirt and turns his head around, gazing at the body reflected in the mirror, the flaring lines at his lower back and forearms almost screaming with their presence. The slightly faded afternoon light gently slipping between thin beige curtains, painting the wooden floor of his small, simple bedroom with golden amber stains across its surface and sliding slowly past the oak shelves stuffed with used copies of books and old, worn-out journals filled with his rushed, energetic handwriting - dust motes moving in the air and turning into tiny gold flakes against the sun's gentle touch. It's a beautiful scene, almost stopped in time, but he's oblivious to it, too occupied with a million thoughts hitting him over the head each time he blinks or dares to breathe. He watches the firm muscles tense under the skin, constantly shifting to the sound of all the memories he's trying not to bring to the surface. He doesn't want to make them stronger, more physical, not wanting the ground he stands on to become quicksand again. There were bigger things at stake to consider here than his roaming, conflicted feelings - he sighs and winces slightly as too many shifts cause the skin to sting in several places. He slips off his shirt and throws it at a chair behind him, irritated with the burning sensation, eyes once again scanning the lines and their patterns, gazing at them with wonder. Her tattoos imprinted on his skin, marking him into something that belonged only to her.

He shakes his head at the thought and gazes up to his face, noticing the dark blue circles under his eyes from the lack of sleep caused by a restless night filled with a wired mind and a body with skin in a constant state of fever. He inhales deeper and then unwillingly looks back to his chest, remembering her stare as she towered over him, dominating him, fingers moving both, with roughness and softness against the skin and muscles, as if she saw something far beyond just his body. Her stare blazing like wildfires that attack forests after months of drought - so uncontrollable, demolishing everything in their reach - yet there was affection hiding under all those flames, under all the mayhem. And that stare scared him, making it the exact moment he stopped it all from going even further, his thoughts momentarily sobering as if somebody threw a big bucket of ice over his head. Instantly, everything around them grew back into focus, as if waking up from a dream.

Or being torn away from it.

He thinks and tenses again. He could risk the physical between them. After all, he was only human, a regular Joe - someone that made mistakes like everyone else. But the tenderness that he saw in her eyes was something that he couldn't dare to gamble away if things between them would ever go wrong. He would not risk the parts of her that were most fragile, something that she so rarely allowed herself to bring to the surface. It was like an electrical shot straight to his nervous system, causing him to master all the willpower he could conjure and turning it into anger. Anger at the possibility of ever hurting her, of being yet another monster in her life, another demon to make her eyes more wary than they already were. The thought terrified him and made him furious. He never felt such fury before in his life.

Never.

It was the first time he was grateful for the rage cursing through his veins.

His back slouches, shoulders curling forward as if he was carrying a massive weight for far too long, and today it had finally become too much to bear. And yet, somehow, he manages to look up again at his reflection, at the lines that said so many things without any words, painted out for everyone to see. A reminder of a presence that has made a permanent residence in his being, something that could not be tamed or forgotten, causing things in him to swell and grow, making it seem like the heart under his ribs no longer had enough room - outgrowing everything he has known so far. Unfortunately, the lines were also question marks carved and crafted into his flesh. Questions that tortured him from the first second he left her apartment, the beast made out of his thoughts, escaping to roam around his head freely, snarling or whimpering - depending on the direction his mind took.

There was a cynic in him that wanted to ask. Did you want me or the battery cord for your pain? Did the bottle of morphine feel as ecstatic this time as well? Or did you want to rip more away from me? For a brief second, it felt liberating as the anger swiped through his bloodstream, pumping fuel into his muscles and his triggered thoughts. But not long after, guilt followed, slipping through the cracks and joining the party, stinging at his insides stronger than the lines painted across his skin. It wasn't Nora's fault that all of this was happening to her and that there was no way for her to stop the nightmares by herself. After all, she had asked him seconds before, even though her entire system had been screaming with unmentionable ache and despair. He knew that he could've stopped her and helped in other ways. But the torture in her eyes made it impossible for him to deny her anything. He couldn't let her suffer like that, wanting to be her instant remedy, the cure in her blood. Who knows? Maybe it was a flattering thought that licked at his ego; maybe deep inside, he loved the idea of being so important to her. Perhaps he was just a fool with a heart too easily opened, a heart that always somehow turned towards her as if an invisible needle, pointing north.

Yes, the fool part was certain.

He wonders if she would act the same if there was no pain to deal with, no need to pour water over the flames eating her alive each time of day and night. Would she still crave him in the same way? How did she really feel? Did she see him as something more than a friend and a safe harbor for the tortured body that was running on fumes by now? More than just someone that brought her moments of peace between all the invisible demons she had to face? Again, he wasn't sure - never the one to assume things, on most occasions remaining rather oblivious to this area of life. There was a very valid reason for friends and family teasing him about being clueless when it came to romance and stuff revolving around it. He considered himself an intelligent and more than capable person, but reading signs was never his strongest suit.

I can't risk something I can't live without.

The words ring out in his head, and he slouches again under their weight, knowing they might as well be his own. He stares at the clock on the small bedside table and blinks a few times at the red digits until they blur out completely, then sighs and picks up his phone, fingers dancing across the screen.

[ everything alright? ]

His thoughts circle around many things until they linger on a dark living room and them in the middle of chaos, on the flames that wanted to eat them both alive in such an unexplainable, erratic way. After a while, the phone buzzes twice in his hands, and he jumps, cursing under his breath, annoyed for feeling caught red-handed on the memory.

[ yes, just like it was an hour ago and the hour before that ]

[ roger-over ]

He sighs at the reply. He couldn't help himself not to check up on her after everything that occurred in the last 48 hours. The fear of the possibility of losing her and something bad happening to her permanently echoed under his skin. He texted her several times to ease the worried mind but wasn't brave enough to call. Maybe it was for the best. They both needed some space. He slowly stumbles to his bed and sits on it heavily, leaning forward and hiding his face in his hands. He sinks for a moment into himself, time losing meaning, and then he growls, irritation bubbling straight from his deepest core.

Damn it. So many things fucked up at once!

He shouts out even more, aggravated, and then hears an unexpected banging sound that makes him jump again. He stares surprised at the wall behind him just before another small pounding starts.

I'm trying to sleep here. Do you mind holding back the drama tantrums for later??

Rob's muted voice fills the little room, and he blinks, eyes widening. Shit. He forgot he wasn't alone in the apartment. After last night he was constantly distracted and not being able to take in any details around him for too long. Eventually, everything would slip into a frenzied haze, making him act like an only semi-responding zombie. Just enough to nod, make sounds, and answer simple questions, frowning confused whenever his brother's voice would penetrate his thoughts loud enough to drag him out of it.

Yeah, sorry. Go back to sleep.

He mutters, slightly raising his voice so Rob can hear him, and hears some low cussing behind the wall; that gradually turns into a vibrating, growing melody of his brother's enticing grizzly snores. He shakes his head at the surreal scene and falls down on the bed, outstretching his arms above his head; so they now resemble a pair of locked scissors as his stare digs deeper into the ceiling as if wanting to bend it with the power of his mind, thoughts swirling in all directions, floating but not lending on any ground for longer. What did you do with me, woman? He asks into the empty space and sighs again. One hell of an adventure this has turned out to be with her. But maybe in the end, he always knew it, from that first moment, in one of the doctors' offices when he caught her stealing morphine from the medicine cabin. Or perhaps right after, when all her pain magically dissolved by the power of his touch, and she asked him if she could keep him. Maybe right there at that moment he was already gone, surrendering to things he had no idea about, not realizing how much she would change and shift his entire life, leaving him spinning without rest on its axis.

"If I don’t take anything from here and surrender to the cops, can I keep you then?"

"Keep me?"

"Yes, as a pet or a houseplant."

"What, not even as a boyfriend or your boy toy? Oh wow, I see your sense of humor is still doing well."

"Hmm, I wish I was joking. But whatever medical miracle you doing here, it’s definitely working."

He smiles with softness at the memory, letting warmth and peace fill him up; eyes searching the ceiling for answers he so desperately yearned for. His thoughts slowly change their track, floating until they find a sudden stop. It feels like a small pebble falling into the water and creating ripples against its crystal gleaming surface. His pulse rushes as a thought he was avoiding for a while returns to him, pushing against the walls in his head. I see you found yourself a healer. He inhales sharply and buys himself some time by counting each small crack and dent on the ceiling, waiting for the blood in his veins to move slower, to become less erratic. A healer. Am I really that? And what does it mean exactly for me? Is it a good thing or a bad thing? He ponders as his chest begins to move at a more regular pace with each breath. It must be a good thing if I'm able to help her - he thinks and then frowns. But there are consequences to everything.

To all the unexplainable things in this world, the ones having the subtle taste of miracles.

They always had some effects.

He thinks harder. Did he ever feel tired or drained after helping her? Was he suddenly exhausted or left with a headache? No. The answer is soft but at the same time, stern. No, he continuously felt good after, at peace, content that he brought her some release. He focuses more on his memories, testing each one like an elastic, colored rubberband - comparing, checking for symptoms that could imply a negative outcome or sickness, his medical training kicking in. No, he never felt worse or exhausted after. Maybe a little tired, but in a way that good exercises work, causing the blood to flow faster and the endorphins to shoot out, changing the chemical structure of the brain. He marvels at the thought. Helping Nora was like stretching and flexing muscles in the morning, like having a bigger run - a part of you was a bit out of breath, but at the same time, it felt right, needed, as if it was a part of his purpose, of his life path - just like medicine and helping patients were for him.

He blinks at the newly discovered revelations and lays there for a while in silence. His brain takes time to bring in the new data and the questions forming in his head, shifting his views on things he took as certain elements of his reality. If he helped her, were there others that he could benefit from his touch? Was that woman he helped as a kid a part of that journey? And if so, how many people did he already help in that way without even knowing? He lifts from the bed and sits on it, staring at the space in front of him, taking in so many things at once, his head threatening to explode from too much information and possible theories. Finally, as the light in the bedroom shifts to different places, its shades becoming more vibrant and dominant, he glances back at the tall mirror with a simple dark oak wooded frame in the corner of the room - the lines on his skin seeming softer somehow, not even stinging anymore. He inhales deeper and reaches for his phone, the words on the screen coming to him with more ease this time.

[ stay in my life as long as you like, somehow the world feels much better with you in it ]

He presses send and smiles to himself. The situation between them wasn't ideal right now, and he knew that for a while there would be some awkwardness lingering in the air. But something deep down in his gut told him everything would work itself out. It was a feeling he couldn't explain in any rational way, but it filled him, moving through his bones and resting in his veins. He puts his hand on his side, his thumb gliding slowly against the red-sensitive lines there, feeling almost like a memory he didn't have but could catch somewhere in the edges of his subconscious mind. The lines felt like a road map to a place he had always known - a place he didn't yet have a name for but was certain he wanted to come back to. He shakes his head. Such a new strange feeling, yet so familiar. He tilts his head slightly and pulls out facts and definitions that he studied and read about countless times in technical books focusing on the part of the brain that controls both its memory and the loss of it. Hmm, this feeling he had when he touched the shape of the lines against his skin reminded him of some form of amnesia. Some people that went through it would sometimes describe it as a strange sensation - like when they would walk past their own house and had no memory of ever living in it, yet somehow the building would seem familiar to them, even though they couldn't quite place the why factor. Sort of like a feeling of Deja Vu, or in other cases, a past life sensation. He wasn't sure how he felt about past lives as his mind was more practical than anything else, but there was something he heard once that stayed with him for many years. "It is similar to waking up and only remembering your dream for 30 seconds or a minute and then completely forgetting about it."

It kind of felt like that, as if things connected to her were a dream he just woke up from and could only catch for a few moments before it would disappear completely. However, the difference here was that even though the details slipped away from his subconscious, the feeling itself remained. And not only did it stay with him, but it also kept expanding in him as well. He didn't know yet what all of this meant, but he was ready to find out.

With her.

________________

previous chapters

53. https://theprose.com/post/553492/those-whispers-under-the-wooden-boards

54. https://theprose.com/post/706199/the-motion-and-interaction-of-erratic-things

(part 1)

55. https://theprose.com/post/706205/the-motion-and-interaction-of-erratic-things (part 2)

We moved again when I was nine. I was excited by the “adventure,” but – not surprisingly - I wasn’t prepared for the “adventure.”

The movers in the yellow truck, with a giant green boat on the side, arrived, and I imagined we were sailing away on the Mayflower to our new country. To be fair, the side of the truck said Mayflower Moving, but I was alight with the thought of a grand journey at nine. The Mayflower connection created crazy ideas that rolled around my unfinished brain like the waves I imagined in the expansive sea that stretched to the foreign land of West Virginia.

Would I wear a long dark dress with some kind of man boots?

Would I wear the hat with the buckle, or the “Handmaid’s Tale” styled white bonnet?

None of them were attractive options, but as a stalwart new citizen, I would do as they did on the Mayflower or the shores where we would land.

This concept of a “West” Virginia baffled me.

Why did Virginia have a sibling?

“West” Texas was as big as 2 West Virginias.

Did the two halves of Virginia get into an argument that couldn’t be settled with a coin toss? So, it was time to go splitzies?

Who knew, but I wondered these things. These silly little nine-year-old things.

Our journey to “Wild Wonderful West Virginia” sounded promising because it was, after all, wild and wonderful. Would we be in the wild, wild west? Would we ride horses? I was leaving Texas, and we never had a single Laura Ingles Wilder moment. All we had to ride was our cute, tiny, red VW Beetle.

I cannot fathom now why my family of seven had a beetle. That little lady made the distinctive beetle bug sound. It was akin to a herd of guinea pigs squeaking. As they all were back then, ours was a standard without A/C. The loveliness of that and Texas resulted in the perfect storm to combine sweat from inside and dirt from open windows to leaving the seats slippery and lined with muddy tracks underneath damp thighs. Oh, and yes, don’t take a corner too quickly, or all of us would slip and slide up against one another and smack into the doors.

Welcome to the amusement park ride – no seatbelts required. This was 1969.

Waiting in the street in front of our castle, the jovial movers tolerated us kids. This “ship” or truck thing was the most enormous contraption I’d ever seen. We were encouraged by the pirates of the highways to creep up the metal ramp and explore the cavernous, dark, and musty tank. I imagined it to be like a cave that would have echoed my calls.

I didn’t have a way to understand the size and scale of life. That trailer felt big enough to move the treasures of kings and queens.

Could a kingdom be relocated?

Could our small, white brick, mid-century, four bedrooms, two-bath home in Clear Lake City possibly need these excessive accommodations?

My brow was tight with concern about how our little red bug would make the trip. I wanted the sailors of that clipper to keep her safe. Not knowing how far away “Wild Wonderful West Virginia” was further captivated my curiosity. Then they did something brave and shocking. They drove our beetle up the ramp into the cavern.

Their next move was otherworldly to me. Those four mates reached down with the ease of giants, picked up the car, and turned it sideways. Now, all the belongings from the small white brick castle had a sentinel. My brow relaxed because all was well.

The house we moved into from our small castle was a monstrous castle on a hill. It was three stories because it had a basement. There were 4+ bedrooms. Mine was large and glamorous. I envisioned multiple seating areas. (Yes, at 9.). Immediately though, my parents swiped the corner under the eave for my sister’s crib.

This move blindsided me because my parents (Kathy and Ron) had a suite of rooms downstairs with one perfect for a nursery, so I stood in stunned silent defiance. Maybe it’d be fun to play mom…and maybe not.

There were immediate lessons. Even though I was the oldest of five and had been forced into active service as a pseudo-parent, I couldn’t fathom the ensuing responsibilities.

Things that weren’t fun:

Putting a baby to bed and waking up with her when she cries.

The only access to my room after 8 pm if I was silent.

I was more than a big sister.

In the inky darkness one quiet night, Maureen started crying with determination. I hoisted her from her crib and put her in my bed. She promptly puked her dinner of corned beef hash. I bolted to get Kathy. She cleaned her up while I remade my bed. Believe it or not, she put her back in my bed. She slunk back to her quiet room downstairs. Maureen puked again. This time after I retrieved the “real parent,” she took all my bedding, put it in the tub, and took my sister downstairs. I found a measly sleeping bag and tried to sleep on the floor before I had to get ready for school. The other three staring at me startled and irritated me.

“What?” was all I could muster.

“Are you sick, Juri?” Karen asked.

“No, let me sleep.” With that, they skulked away.

How did I get rooked into the big sister job? I wanted the king and queen of the red brick castle to do their damn jobs. I wanted to be relegated to princess again, not a lady in waiting nor the nurse, teacher, enforcer, or disciplinarian. However, this role was rapidly blossoming and getting out of hand for me.

Suddenly, Kathy decided it was an excellent idea for her and Ron to join the local theater group. Guess who was running things during rehearsals and performances, and cast parties? Yes, yours truly.

Reminder: I was between 9 and 12 when we lived there.

On one such occasion, we were home alone during a violent thunderstorm.

-Baby, asleep – check.

-Others with me downstairs now because they were scared – check.

-No one missing – check. Two were crying, and one was clinging to me.

Then the best of all scenarios – the power went out. Unprepared, I had a lightbulb moment (no pun intended) - I lit the gas stove top. Well, that only helped right there.

In the flashes of light, Karen (younger by 18 months) and I took halting steps toward our parents’ room. The two middle ones sat on the stairs with blankets over their heads, like a scene from The Sixth Sense. In the brightness of each flash, we rummaged through the top drawer of Ron’s dresser. Isn’t the dresser where one keeps a flashlight?

Nope.

Finally, I abandoned all attempts to fix that shit myself. Karen and I ran to the neighbor’s next door. I had the good sense to put a raincoat on both of us. We climbed the 17,000 steps to their house and knocked on the door. Those poor people stared at us as if we were lost children of Appalachia. Aghast, we were left “home alone” with a 10-year-old in charge; the husband came over to the house with a flashlight and, I think, an extra one. He was kind and patient. Just after we got there, the lights came back on. He ensured we were ok and left with an eye roll toward my parents. I believe there was a follow-up “talk” with my dad, which was relatively unpleasant.

In an attempt at passing the torch of authority, when he was absent, good ole Ron gave me a camouflage shirt with the sleeves cut out and some military patches on it. The kids thought it was ridiculous. He made me wear it as his deputy’s badge. It made their behavior worse.

My parents played in a little theater, and I parented the hoard.

What I learned:

I loved snow.

I loved the forest and the creeks I got to explore and wander (always with a sibling). I loved the freedom of those hours lost and then found again.

I loved plucking and tasting honeysuckle on the twisting and climbing trail, making our way to swim practice.

Squinting my eyes didn’t improve my vision; contacts did.

Heating Campbell’s consummé when Kathy and Ron weren’t home and the kids were hungry was a mistake. How was I to know that word was French for broth?

Letting the kids try to make a pie was a bad idea when I was in charge. As it turns out, pouring all ingredients for the crust and filling in the same bowl doesn’t, in fact, work. They don’t separate to create the elements of a pie miraculously—and this enraged Kathy.

I didn’t want to be a pre-adolescent parent.

I didn’t know how to make and keep everyone happy.

I didn’t know my dad was an alcoholic.

I didn’t know what the DTs were, but they convinced my dad there was a band in his hospital room.

I didn’t like Mom taking me to pick Dad up from the hospital. She shit-talked him all the way there. Experiencing him vomiting out the window left me horrified. My grandparents were home with the other kids, and that was where I wanted to be. They let me be a child.

I stopped being a child in that castle.

No matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t good enough.

I wanted the highway pirates to come and take us back to the little white castle with the pool, the golf course, and the pond behind it.

There is never a way to know the future.

There is never a way to know the possibilities of a lifetime.

There is only the living, and it must be done.

Chapter 5:

Ashton marched to Carson’s office. Heart racing, worries flooded through his mind. Cole stood against a wall in the main building. His arms were crossed against his chest and a smirk was plastered onto his face.

His eyes fell on Ashton and they locked with one another for a moment. Cole smirked again. “Good luck,” a sinister laugh came with his next words, “You’ll need it.”

Ashton tugged against the collar of his coat. The fabric rubbed against his throat, adding to his nerves. “Come in, Ashton.” Carson called, his hands splayed on the desk.

“Good afternoon, sir.” Ashton stepped in.

Carson looked up at the young man. His dark eyes flashed angrily at Ashton, sending a warning. “I’ve heard rumors.”

“Rumors, sir?” Ashton masked a look of innocence onto his face. Yet, a feeling of dread wrapped its fingers around his heart.

“Yes, rumors.” Carson growled. “I’m in no mood for games. Did you, or did you not speak with Sage Bennett before her transport?” His fingers rapped impatiently against the desk.

Ashton gulped. He didn’t answer.

“Ashton.” Carson stood and rounded the desk to face him. “Answer the question.”

“I did, sir.” He bit his tongue and held back slashing words.

“Why?” Carson’s hand instinctively laid on his gun’s handle in the holster. The holster hung from his belt, the handle of the gun rested just above his hip.

“I needed to have a word with her about her work.” He spat out.

“You’re lying, Ashton.” Carson flashed a small smile. A mockingly sweet tone peppered his voice, “You know what I think of lying.”

Ashton gulped, his face started to pale. “Sir, I-“

Carson narrowed his eyes and pulled the gun from his holster speedily. “The truth, Ashton. Or you can choose a slow, painful punishment.” He aimed the gun at Ashton’s shoulder.

Ashton instinctively whipped out his gun, pointing it at the chief. Carson cocked the gun, his voice was deadly. “Ashton, put the gun away. And tell the truth.” A snarl twisted his face. “Now.”

Ashton aimed the gun at Carson, his hands shook as he cocked it and placed his finger onto the trigger. “Put the gun away.” He hissed, “Tell me the truth.”

Carson’s aim held steady at Ashton’s right shoulder, Ashton slowly lowered his gun and pointed it to the floor. His muscles were tense, ready to spring it up again. “I told you. I was talking to her about her work orders. I informed her she would be transferred for a couple days.” His heart raced.

“That’s not what Cole told me.” Carson growled, taking a step up to Ashton. “He said you and Miss Sage Bennett were making escape plans. You were scheming to kill me, take down each of my soldiers one by one, and take over the camp.” His eyes flashed. “Then, you could free everyone.”

Ashton started to raise his gun, but thought better of it. “I assure you, I had no such contact with Sage about that.” His jaw tightened. “We talked strictly about work orders.” Ashton steeled his glare and looked Carson in the eyes, “We both know Cole has a reputation for creating and spreading rumors, sir.”

Carson laughed and lowered his gun for a moment. “You are right about that.” He de-cocked the gun, as did Ashton, and they both re-holstered them. “I want to speak with Cole.” Anger spiced his voice. “Where is he?”

“He was outside when I came here, sir.” Ashton straightened.

Carson twisted the door open, “Garris! Get Cole in here. Now.” He shut the door again and looked at Ashton, “You may stay here. I need a witness to Cole’s words.”

Cole marched into the office moments later. His green eyes darted around and landed on Ashton. He scowled before shutting the door. “Reporting to your office, sir.” He growled.

“Cole, Cole.” Carson clucked pitifully. His boots clicked against the floor and he stopped across from the now shaking young man. “You know what I think of rumors being spread.”

A bead of perspiration dripped down Cole’s cheek. His face reddened and his hand sat on his gun holster. “I-I don’t know what yo-you mean s-sir.” He stammered nervously.

Studying his nails for a moment he spoke, “You know exactly what I mean. You set a bad reputation for sharing rumors and lies, it gets you into trouble.” His eyes flashed maliciously. Carson’s hand pulled out his gun and lightening speed and aimed it at the young man..

“Sir, please.” Cole pleaded. He didn’t pull out his gun, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shoot faster than Carson.

Carson cocked the gun. “I gave you a chance. You blew it. I gave you a second chance, you also blew it. They say third times a charm, but you’ve shown it’s not.” His finger twitched on the trigger. “Three strikes –– you’re out.” He growled.

Cole blabbered, sweat started to dampen his hairline. “Please, ju-just give me one more chance,” He begged. “Please I promise I'll be better-“

Carson growled under his breath and re-holstered his gun again. “Get out of here.” He waved his hand. “If I hear you spread rumors such as this again, I will be sure you never set foot on this camp again, or any other.”

~*~

“Obviously, having your daughter here isn’t much use, is it?” Maverick snarled. “Take her back to the camp.” He hissed. “I have no more need of her here. It’s no use.”

The guard smirked and dragged Sage out of the door. “Sir-“ Maverick interrupted him with a nod and a flash of the eyes. The guard’s smirk grew larger.

Sage followed, cringing in pain. He stopped her outside and pushed her against a wall. His eyes glimmered at her. “So, you’re a trouble-maker, huh?”

Sage gulped as he leaned close to her face and blocked her from moving away. “Looks like you need-“

“Harlen!” A male voice chuckled from the shadows. “You’re taking orders all by yourself?”

Harlen scowled and turned around. “Oh shut up.” His body shifted and he turned to face the man.

Sage snuck away from the wall then started running. Her feet flew and she ran out of the prison. “We have an escapee!” Screams sounded from guards all around.

Harlen pulled out his gun and a bullet whizzed past Sage’s head. Her feet flew faster. She ran outside of the prison. Guards pulled out their guns and started aiming at her feet or arms. They didn’t dare kill her.

Sage looked behind her and suddenly bumped into a strong muscular body. Steel like arms wrapped around her waist and stomach. “Settle down.” A voice hissed. Sage panted and twisted again in the man’s grip.

Harlen marched up to her a growl spiced his voice. “Trying to escape?” He cupped her chin and tilted her head up to look him in the eyes. Defiant eyes glared back at him. “We’ll see what Maverick has to say about that.” He pulled out a walkie talkie device and radioed his boss.

“We have an escapee –– the girl.” He announced to Maverick.

A voice came back staticky and annoyed. “This isn’t her prison, you take her to Carson and he deals with her.” A beep sounded.

Harlen scoffed. “Get in.” He pushed Sage into a car. She slid across the seat, trembling as the burly guard scooted in next to her.

In moments they arrived to the other prison yard gates. They were let in and Harlen harshly marched Sage to the main office. Ashton stood outside the office. “Is Carson in?” He asked while gripping Sage’s shoulder.

Ashton glanced at Sage’s face, while she was stern and stoic, he saw determination in her eyes. “Yes, sir. What seems to be the problem?”

Harlen glowered. “I took her to Maverick and she is charged with attempted escape from the prison as I was ready to transport her. Maverick dismissed her and I started to grab her but she ran-“

The office door swung open and Carson marched out. “Sage..” He crooned. “Lovely of you to make an appearance.” He motioned for them all to enter.

Ashton strode in, Sage walked in front of Harlen. His grip sent aches of pain up and down her arm. “What’s the problem, Harlen?” Carson took a seat at his desk and whirled a pen between his fingers. His dark eyes flashed and landed on Sage’s straight figure for a moment before turning to the guard.

The man relayed the events from moments earlier. Carson nodded and dismissed Harlen. “Thank you.” He waved him away.

Ashton stared at Carson before speaking. “What’s your plan sir?” He asked gruffly.

Carson chuckled and stood from his desk, coming around to Sage. She brought her eyes to meet his for a moment then quickly averted them. He saw the determination in her eyes. Yet he sensed a hint of fear in her. “She needs to learn.” He grunted as he grabbed her chin and tilted her head up.

“Learn what?” Sage spat the words in Carson’s face. “How to work like an animal? How to be exhausted, and be tortured? How to be a slave to all you ugly, disgusting people?” Her eyes were defiant, fearless. “Learn how to be a human robot, obeying your every command?”

Carson gasped, sarcasm laced his voice. “Sage! My dear, you don’t understand.” He walked around her and talked, his boots clumping with every step. “This camp was set up to keep the world a better place. Secrets don’t help anyone. Ever. They’re dangerous. The world is a dangerous place.”

Sage’s eyes followed his every move, bracing for what might come next. “We’re merely trying to sort out the secrets. Lying never helped you get through life, did it? It only made it worse. The time you lied about stealing a cookie, and then later felt guilty. Or maybe a time you lied to yourself.” A pause. “Tsk-tsk.” He clucked, “You must learn, things work differently here. You work, we earn. You talk, we learn.” His eyes stared into hers for a moment. “You hide secrets, we find them out."

Ashton watched, trying to maintain his composure. He saw what Carson was doing –– trying to brainwash her, make her see things his way. It scared him more than the other horrors he witnessed. Carson glanced at the young man. “Take her back. She’s still new.” His dark eyes locked onto hers. “Still adjusting.”

Sage suppressed a sneer at the chief and turned to Ashton. He opened the door and shoved her out it, then pushed her to get outside. Once they were clear of any eavesdroppers and other guards, Ashton grabbed her shoulder. He turned her around to face him. “Are you insane?” He almost screamed in her face.

She didn’t flinch. “I can’t let him win. I won’t back down.” Her bright green eyes grew more defiant and fearless. “He took my life away, he took my family away.” She whispered harshly. “If you want to let him win, then fine. Be my guest. But I’m not backing down.” Her back turned away from him. “I’m done being afraid. I’m done being an oh-so-obedient-slave. I’ve made up my mind.”

Ashton blew a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through his slicked back hair. “Listen, I know you want to fight back. But this isn’t the way to do it. He could kill you!” He grabbed her arm but she shook it away. “We have to play it safe, please. I know how Carson works, and what he’s capable of. Please, just listen to me!”

She started marching ahead of him, her stubbornness and defiance clear. “You do your job, and I’ll do mine.” Her voice hissed at him.

He walked behind her, frustration building up inside. Why was she so hard headed? So stubborn! As long as he could remember she’d always had a fiery temper. While she tended to be meek at first, her temper soon revealed itself. The stubbornness always showed through. He knew Sage, and was afraid of what she might do. Yet, he feared more so of what Carson could do to her.

"We have forgotten how to be good guests-- how to walk lightly on the Earth as its other creatures do."

~ Barbara Mary Ward

Vienna, Austria

May 14th, 2005

"Thank you, Mercy." The ageing man responded to the nurse. The falter in his voice had still not recovered from the peculiar events of the previous month. What had brought around the unexpected transformation in the great and proud Mr Aldrich Hunter was unknown to most. How could such an arrogant, power-hungry beast be so humbled over a few mysterious days? But everyone knew it had something to do with Nixie. Phoenix Landskein. His bombshell of a second wife. Unlike Mr Hunter and his son, she never returned to the mainframe, and no one knew where she was.

Neo Hunter took the chair on the other end of the fine dining. The table was older than the portrait of the Mona Lisa, spanning nine feet and carved with fine, intricate details from head to toe. The delicacies were not abundant enough to cure the hunger of an entire state anymore. Only what was required was served, and nothing went to waste. Neo ensured that was the case, and no one had any objections to raise. Perhaps it all had to do with the generational transfer of authority from father to son, most people believed.

But Neo Hunter knew better. Neo Hunter knew firsthand what had brought around the radical transformations in the Hunter household. It had everything to do with Mrs Phoenix Landskein, his enigmatic stepmother.

Sighișoara, Romania

April 9th, 2005

That bitch. Neo Hunter rolled down the haystacks piled so high atop one another. How could she? Neo always knew Phoenix Landskein was up to something, but everyone refused to believe him. But with hands tied against a coir rope and rashes of his allergy presenting themselves on his pale skin, Neo knew that was his best chance to prove his suspicions right before everyone. Phoenix Landskein was a gold-digger bitch.

Vision yet to be stable, Neo raised himself to stand, gaining support from his elbows and knees. The whole world spun around him, dizziness almost throwing him into another long daze. But Neo was desperate not to lose consciousness once again-- he slammed himself against the wall in the hopes of steadying his composure, his head held tight between his arms to squish some sense into him. Neo felt his throat ache and his entire frame sweating, leaving his body devoid of moisture. He needed water. Lots of it. Quick breaths. Long breaths.

The barn doors opened with a rasp to reveal before him a courtyard left unchecked for years prior. Ferns and rust had reclaimed all the fences and adornments once white and lustrous. Hints of a winding path leading to an old estate hid beneath the extensive flora consuming whatever men built over its natural state. The tall stone manor at the end of the road-- made almost entirely of stone and iron-- was all too familiar for Neo Hunter. It was his childhood home.

July 1986

The nights were the hardest. So were the days, but the newfound solace of jabbering strangers at school offered Neo an odd comfort. Was there a name for the fear of dinners? But it wasn't the food that scared him. It was what came with it. The people. His family. Every time he heard his name being hollered from downstairs, every step he took towards the dining room-- it all took an act of courage.

Gripping silences. Heaviness in the air. Neo often attempted to not let his cutlery touch the dishes, to not produce the slightest noise so that his parents wouldn't notice his presence. He only left the table once his mom disappeared into the kitchen and his dad to the porch.

But some days, even his silence could not save the tumults which were to befall. Sometimes, it was a hair in the soup, sometimes a tad amount of extra salt in the bacon. But his father's outrage always shook the entire cabin to the core.

Neo never looked at his father when that happened. He looked at his mom. How her eyes were shut, and a lonesome tear caressed her folds. How her palms clutched the dress she was wearing. Before long, when his father disappeared into another room, Gaia always asked Neo to go to his room. And there, he would sleep to the muffled cries of his mother in the place of lullabies, pillows tight against his eyes and ears to tuck himself into dreams where everything was alright.

April 9th, 2005

The rashes grew bigger and redder with the passage of every minute. Unable to find anything sharp and steady, Neo headed to their old kitchen, hoping to find something to free himself. But it was empty. Hollow. The fire and aura had long settled into smoke and filth. That was when he heard a cry from the floor above. Father. Rushing atop the stairs, Neo shouldered open the doors to their old bedroom.

"Finally. You're awake." Phoenix Landskein was a woman of stature, or at least she possessed the charm of someone alike. There she stood, at 5"7', holding what seemed to be a leash made of the creepers from the grounds-- stains of red embellishing the light green of the stem. His father lay on his chest atop the busted cot, his bare back adorned with streaks of blood as he struggled to flee his chains. His restraints were not coir, but cold iron, leaving him zero chance of escaping the onslaught.

Phoenix walked up to Neo, stopping only a few inches away. Neo wanted to back up, but the notion of her kicking him down from the foyer persuaded him to keep his ground. The whip safe in her right hand, Phoenix stared right into his soul-- her green eyes threatening to claw out his deepest fears. In the end, a smile. She took his arms and twined her palms around the coir ropes, only for the yarns to magically untangle themselves, freeing him from its clutch. She passed the leash to his hands, whispering to his ear, "Careful."

As Phoenix strolled down the stairs, Neo ran to his father to help him escape. He needed something to break the chains apart, and soon upon his search, he found all the utensils from their old kitchen on the bedside table, spread neatly on a wet towel. And while picking up the hammer, Neo noticed how his rashes had faded into his skin, no longer inducing an allergic reaction.

But before he could carry his father out somewhere safe, Neo felt the temperature rising around him. Fire. He walked faster only to nearly slip over the stairs, losing the clutch over his father. His rather plump figure tumbled down the stairs, and for a moment, Neo was afraid he had marked the end of his father's life. But the day had other intentions, not a life being lost, though the stone-cold manor collapsed in on itself, leaving no reminiscence of the world Neo once knew.

Vienna, Austria

May 14th, 2005

Putting his father to sleep and piling a heavy blanket atop his fragile frame, Neo walked out of his bedroom to the cold verandah. Phoenix Landskein was never found after that day. Even the most capable investigation teams couldn't gather a clue as to where she was. And the non-cooperative silence of the father and son only led to more and more suspicions and never a proper answer.

But whenever Neo brought around a change in his father's allocation of wealth for the better, the trees and animals seemed to bow before him. The sun seemed to shine brighter on the days' Neo had felt his best. And on the days when Neo felt despair, the clouds taught him to let his tears fall. And whenever he reminisced about his mother, he felt the air tug him into a warm embrace. The leash no longer had the stains of blood, but it bloomed and flowered in the courtyard of their home.

Neo knew what had happened to the Hunter household. It had everything to do with Mrs Phoenix Landskein.

#####

I struggled with writer's block for a long while in between, and I'm sure a lot of people out there has the same issue. I'd never been much of a pantser and had always leaned to more plotting tendencies, and thus reading upon and listening to a lot of storytelling theory and experimenting with a lot of techniques, I'm figuring out an outline to help me with the task. It's not rigid, it's arbitrary, it's constantly changing, and it helps me gain more insight into the stories I want to write, and helps me explore what all I could incorporate into them. And I thought this could be somewhat helpful for someone out there too (: So, I'm sharing the outline I used to write this story here, and... hope it helps!

Outline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1l0Rc2EuvqCKDFnmw-Z6wv5yXSWdZTDa9aqVUS51F28o/edit?usp=sharing

*****

Shoutout

[cuz it feels like a wholesome thing to do (: Also, these will be some of Prose's best, so keep an eye on them (:]

The Evil Series by @Danceinsilence

The Evil Series by @Danceinsilence feels like an episodic thriller with its division into separate books and parts. Featuring a team of cops with the primary focus on a divorced female law enforcement officer and single mother (with the most adorable son), Janis Baker, this series really justifies its title throughout its course... Trust me, no matter how humane a person you think you are, you'd root for some of these characters to suffer the most-brutish-deaths possible... The evil is constantly on the rise and the saviors are on a never-ending effort to keep the streets clean. Sacrifices, serial killers, assassins-- An over-arching threat, loved ones to protect-- this series will not give you a break! Do check it out!

*****

Instagram: (Um, I'll edit that in later...)

My father was moonstruck at a young age, and though he had a very whimsical soul, he also had great, almost psychic, intuition; in his handwritten journal he foretold the arrival of a dastardly entity at his club, the Comedy Fortress, who would be filled with both a nefariously melancholy demeanor and perversely righteous indignation.

------------------------

© 2023 - dustygrein

(Thank you for a great little challenge. Sometimes I create these little random word challenges in poetry, but occasionally I try and see if I can do it all in one sentence... this one worked pretty well.)

I think a lot about the lives of others. Each one is their own entity, living a life I will never know.

A melancholy feeling comes over me as I watch them. In a fortress of public life, seemingly unseen.

Sometimes as I sit, people watching, I create whimsical or dastardly stories for each of them.

Maybe they are moonstruck, racing off to a dinner where their sweetheart will get down on one knee.

Or maybe they stomp along, drenched with indignation, furious about a foretold down-size at their job.

Are they righteous, kind, a mother, a criminal?

Sometimes I'm sure my intuition is off, or maybe my imagination and natural comedy is taking over.

But I enjoy these moments. They make me wonder what people guess about my own life.

And in this melancholy indignation of myself,

I pounce upon the dimness of that whimsical star shimmering down onto me –

basking in the gloriousness

that this nighttime feeling induces in me.

Anything to dastardly cower away from my real intentions;

putting forth the strained effort to pick myself up.

And then,

as if the skies had heard my anguished cries –

I become moonstruck.

Hypnotized.

And like an epiphany,

an intense intuition strikes a chord in me –

as it was foretold,

so long, long ago.

“Be patient,” others had spoken to me.

And I was.

And here it is.

I am locked in a mental fortress, alone with my thoughts.

And I envision that ultimate entity;

that righteous being who will save my life.

And I smile.

For what a comedy it is that I shall be forgiven

after pedaling my feet through the wicked woes of hell.

you're a good guy, I know.

it's evident in the way you smile.

a gentleman in your suit and tie,

but you can put me on trial.

I'll swear to the judge and jury,

all the sins that drip from my lips,

but I'll keep my favorite secrets,

like the evidence of your fingers on my hips.

They love you as a gentleman,

but I have loved you as so much more.

I'll wait for the light to finally shift,

Do they know what you've used that halo for?

but I've seen it, in the flashes,

dark flames creeping at your eyes-

rising when you steal glances at me.

in them, a devil in an angel's guise.

Those perfect blue eyes turn to ice,

drowning in your whiskey at night.

When you see me do you dream

how we must feel, late at night?

For a moment, do you imagine,

your hands tangled in my hair,

as I softly kiss every curve of your throat.

every sound falls like a prayer.

Do you imagine your restraint

tossed in the corner, next to your shirt?

What about my fingers wrapped around yours,

as I brush away all your hurt?

I would pour over every inch of you,

to hear your wildest desires.

and if desperation falls at our doorstep,

do we do the things it requires?

Sometimes, I swear I can feel your hand,

tracing the top of the slit in my dress.

and the higher and deeper you go,

the more I have to confess.

god, maybe you're just as dark as me,

and in each other, we find rays of sacred daylight.

One look and I already feel your hands in my hair,

oh, but you're a gentleman... right?